


Abaddon Sheol

by DoctorWanderer



Category: Doctor Who, Multi-Fandom, Original Work, The Hour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Amnesia, Dark Fantasy, Depression, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Love, Magic Revealed, Magical Artifacts, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Suicidal Thoughts, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:54:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorWanderer/pseuds/DoctorWanderer
Summary: What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?More glory and more grief than I can tell:The earth that wakes one human heart to feelingCan centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.- Emily Brontë, StanzasThe epic journey of an ordinary-extraordinary man who must discover his past and destroy himself, in order to born again from his own ashes, profoundly changed.
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 8





	1. The lost man

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm incredibly happy to share with you this story that I have been developing for about four years now, together with other brilliant people. This is an adapted version of these four years of adventures.  
> Peter has been to me more an imaginary friend than just a character. He is inspired by the wonderful and talented actor Peter Capaldi and few of the characters he played on screen, namely Randall Brown (The Hour), the Twelfth Doctor, and Dr. Pete Walker (The field of blood).  
> I'm not a native-English speaker, so I always do my best to write in a correct English. Please, if you find any mistake, feel free to inform me: I would immensely appreciate it!  
> Your comments are always welcomed. I'd love to know your impressions and to receive your feedbacks and advices. They will help me to improve myself.  
> This story is set in the United States, but unfortunately I've never been there. Any inaccuracy or inconsistency with the US reality (including the spelling) that is not justified by the story is due to my inexperience.  
> That said, enjoy reading! I hope you will embark on this adventure with me.
> 
> WHO PLAYS WHO (actors/actresses who play the characters in my mind)  
> Peter Capaldi - Peter Barnes  
> Anna Chancellor - Alexis "Lix" Collins  
> Jenna Coleman - Clara Sullivan  
> Ben Whishaw - Julian Janova

_June 15, 2019 - Lenwood (US)_

When Peter opened his eyes, it was evening and he was sitting in a bus, his head resting on the window pane. He had dozed off and now that he woke up, he had a headache. It was a slight pain actually, rather a nuisance: he felt as if he had overslept, so much so that he was confused, even tired.  
The lights inside the bus were reflected on the window pane and his face was reflected too. It was not surprising to see his own features of course, but at that moment he felt as if he was rediscovering his face after not having seen it for a long time. His face had aged and was grim, his hair were grey. 

Peter looked beyond the glass, out of the window. The dark outside and the reflections on the pane didn't allow him to see much, but the bus was traveling along a state road that cut through a wooded area. On that side of the road there were tall, lush trees that made way for some clearings here and there, as well as sporadic small ranches. After a few moments, Peter could briefly see a street sign: _'Entering Lenwood'_  
Only in that moment, Peter realized that he didn't remember getting on the bus and, above all, he had no idea where he was or where he was going. This thought put a certain agitation on him, he felt uneasy and confused.  
Instinctively, he turned to look at the rest of the bus: it was quiet, there were few people on board, ordinary middle-aged people, and no one was paying attention to him. He lightly rubbed his forehead and noticed a black travel bag between his feet, not particularly large. That bag looked familiar to him: it was certainly his, but he couldn't tell what was inside. What was he doing on that bus? When and why did he get on it? Where did he come from? What place was Lenwood?  
At least, he was still in the United States: he was pretty sure of that. He tried to recall the last place he had been, in order to get a clue of why he was on this bus, going God knows where. He couldn't concentrate. The whitish neon light of the bus was bothering him more and more, and was making his headache worse.  
Maybe he was sobering up. Although he wasn't the type to love drinking, those could be the consequences of a massive hangover, right?

He felt scared at not being able to answer any of all the questions that ran in his head. He became more tense, but told himself, in his mind, to stay calm. There had to be an explanation.  
As an automatic response to the tension, Peter touched his tie and adjusted the knot.  
In addition to a smart dark suit and a white shirt, he was wearing a dark green tie with tiny white polka dots. He really liked that fabric: for some reason, it made him feel calmer, looking at it and touching it gave him a sense of security.  
During that slow and accurate gesture, Peter's gaze fell on the plain gold wedding band he was wearing on his left ring finger. This detail came as a surprise similar to having seen his face on the window pane. The ring was exactly where it was supposed to be and always had been, and yet it was like finding something he had long lost. 

He had been married for a very long time. Now he was a widower though, but in his mind he was still married. He loved his wife profoundly. Her name was Lix and he loved her. He missed her. 

But he didn't remember anything else. Not a single detail other than those few certainties that were clear in his mind. He had no idea of what his wife looked like, when she died, or why she died. Even the grief was clouded in an indistinct sadness, but it was there, sinking deep in his heart.  
He tried to focus on that feeling, he pushed himself to remember something, to feel something, even if it hurt. He needed to.  
What he got was only the instant vision of something horrible and monstrous suddenly appearing at the doors of his consciousness. He could see nothing but a frightening dark abyss, nothingness opening up under his feet, swallowing his mind and paralysing him. 

Darkness. It was too overwhelming to try to understand what it really was. 

As if he had slammed the door shut in complete panic, he found himself again on the quiet bus. His hands were slightly shaking, the nuisance in his head became a real pain. He experienced another moment of utter confusion, far worse than the previous one. What was happening to him? It was not a hangover, was it?  
Peter was about to cry but managed to restrain himself, he tried to calm down. He breathed, adjusted his tie over and over again, and tried to clear his mind, focusing on what he needed - some fresh air, maybe a rest, or just being alone and away from that annoying neon light - and what was around him. A heavy, dark coat was folded over the seat beside him.

Before he could think of something else and figure out what to do, the bus stopped in a parking lot, after having reached the outskirts of Lenwood. Peter had no longer paid attention to the landscape, but in the last two minutes, the bus had passed many more houses and some commercial premises. Only when the bus stopped, Peter looked again out the window. The area was separated from the main road by a long row of trees, and was large enough to accommodate not only a parking lot, but also a modest motel and a small diner.  
After opening the bus doors, the driver turned off the engine and got up from his seat. The few passengers who were on the bus soon slipped out, silently. Peter, instead, remained seated.  
He took a few more moments to think: the real decision was not to get off the bus, of course, but to ask the driver about where, when, and how he got on.  
Peter could feel the impatient driver's gaze on him, which put too much pressure on him. He tried to keep control and distract himself by nervously adjusting his tie a couple of times.  
The driver had noticed the strange gray-haired man who seemed to avoid looking at him. For this reason, he cleared his throat and said, almost bored: 

"This is the end of the line, sir" 

Peter noticed the driver's deep, hoarse voice addressing him impersonally, which discouraged him from answering or asking anything. Peter just nodded, muttered "Thank you", then took his coat and his travel bag, and walked to the door. He was aware of the possibility of losing valuable information, but he felt unable to ask the driver questions that would make him look crazy. Assuming he got satisfactory answers, these would be of little help, considering that he couldn't remember even his wife's face. 

Peter was almost relieved to find himself out of the bus and to feel the rather cool air on his face.  
After only a few seconds, it started sprinkling. It was just a light rain but Peter welcomed it, hoping that it could somehow wash away the confusion and fear. Indeed he was so scared of that memory loss that his mind was gravitating around it, but he couldn't stand looking at it directly. He had to concentrate on making one small decision at a time. 

First thing first, it was June. Peter knew that for sure, but he wasn't sure what day it was.  
He looked at his wristwatch, a simple analog watch with steel strap and case, and saw the hands pointing to approximatively half past ten.  
Even if he had to go to a specific place other than Lenwood, he couldn't know now.  
The most reasonable decision was to stop and sleep there, in the motel that coincidentally was at the bus' end of the line. It was probably a planned situation, as he was a methodical and precise person. It might or might not be dangerous, but now there was nothing else he could do. Moreover, he felt the urgency to reach a private place to be alone with his thoughts and assess the extent of his memory loss. He needed to check his wallet, his phone, and the travel bag, to see if he could find anything useful. 

As he was reaching the motel entrance, Peter carefully studied the environment around him. The darkness of the evening was a relief to his eyes and he was able to concentrate more.  
The motel was nice and well maintained, albeit modest. It had two floors and a total of thirteen doors and windows overlooking the parking lot. A porch ran the length of the motel. The sign off the front door revealed the motel's name: _'Lenwood Breeze'_. The words _'Moe's House'_ instead shone on the neon sign above the small diner on the other side of the area.  
As the area was separated from the road, Peter couldn't see any road signs that could give him a clue as to where he was. But there were about ten cars in the parking lot.  
Peter stopped to look at the license plates of two of the closest cars parked right near the motel entrance. They were both from Maine.  
Peter frowned in confusion. Nothing: no memory, no intuition, no sensible thought emerged to justify his presence in Maine. Not only it was scary, but incredibly frustrating too. At least this time it was not overwhelming.  
The only reasonable thing he could think of was that Maine wasn't that far from Massachusetts, where he was born. To be precise, he was born in Manchester-by-the-Sea on August 31, 1962. 

"Sir?" ... "Sir?"

A gentle female voice was calling him from the entrance of the motel. Peter had been staring blankly at the license plates for too many seconds. That, and the fact that he stood undeterred in the light rain without an umbrella, must have caught someone's attention.  
Peter turned to the door and saw a young woman in her thirties leaning half her body out the door, looking and smiling at Peter both warmly and curiously. She had a very expressive, round face with a pointed nose and large eyes; she was wearing a green print tea dress and black leggings. And she was waiting for Peter to come in, holding the door open.

"Come on" she invited him, adding a nod to her words.  
She was quite amused by that strange, elegant man who stood upright and motionless, looking at her in silence, serious and bewildered. The woman wondered if Peter was even capable of speaking.  
To her eyes, Peter could have just landed on Earth from another planet, if that were possible. What amused her most was that Peter, with his coat and his travel bag, was not at all bothered to get more and more wet in the rain.  
Actually, it was perhaps the only comforting feeling for Peter: the rain was the only perception that anchored him to reality in an increasingly unreal situation. If all this was just a nightmare, he wouldn't be surprised.

"You don't want to sleep out there tonight, do you?"  
"No... n-no. Excuse me." Peter hastened to answer and gave a slight, indecisive smile.  
The woman saw a kind of sadness in it, but it was difficult to decipher a feeling on that face.  
The woman's firm but kind words made Peter reconnect to reality, so he hurried to the door. It was certainly not polite to keep the kind woman waiting.  
She entered the motel and Peter followed her into the lobby. It was a tastefully decorated place, the walls were a pastel blue color, with a couple of Monet prints. Farther away, at the end of a short corridor, Peter could see a room with some armchairs, sofas and coffee tables. The reception desk was on the left corner, just after the entrance.  
The young woman was already there, behind the desk, staring at Peter. She didn't want to rush him, rather she was curious about how he would interact with the environment and with her. After having looked around, Peter walked over to the reception counter. Fortunately the rain had barely dampened his clothes and wet his hair.

"I'm Clara, by the way. Clara Sullivan. Welcome!"  
"Nice to meet you, Miss Sullivan"  
That was more of a polite set phrase and Peter's voice was rather monotone. However, he was attentive and he realised that Clara's face had something familiar, but he couldn't remember anything. It was useless to try. Peter smiled slightly, even though he felt deeply uncomfortable.

"Do - do we know each other?" he ventured to ask. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.  
Clara took a better look to the man's face: she scanned the signs of his age, the silver hair, the enigmatic expression, the blue eyes with their fleeting but intense gaze. Then she smiled.  
"No, I don't think so" she said gently.  
It was enough for him. He quickly returned to the introductions, changing the subject.  
"I - ahm - I'm Peter Barnes. It's a lovely place here." he tried to gain time, because it was difficult to ask for a room. Asking for a room meant to deal with the memory loss.  
"We try to do our best. I'm glad you like it" Clara said with a grateful smile. She seemed a lovely and bright person, as much as he was dark.  
Peter looked down at some brochures and small guidebooks scattered across the desk.  
"Can I take one of these?" he asked. They could be useful in finding out more about Lenwood, since he didn't even know where this place was on the map.  
As he was finishing his question, his fingers were already nervously arranging the brochures in a pile, aligning them precisely. Peter was ashamed and wanted to run away, his entire body was tense.  
Clara had noticed Peter's behavior - who wouldn't? - but she didn't seem to mind it.  
"Sure. Are you a tourist?" Clara asked, though Mr. Barnes didn't look like a tourist at all. He was more likely an alien, like K-Pax.  
"Kind - kind of ... a tourist" he lied, quite badly, and managed to control himself by moving his hands on his tie, touching the knot three times consecutively. One. Two. Three. Things have to be done in a precise order.

"Good. So..." Clara tried to help Peter out of his discomfort.

"I'd like to stay here overnight. If it is possible. Is there a spare room?" Peter said rapidly, as if he feared to change his mind at any moment.

"Sure, we have a spare room for you. It's fifty-two dollars a night and the price includes breakfast at Moe's diner." 

"Okay, thank you." Peter replied in the usual polite but detached way. He just felt out of place. He was afraid - not really in the mood for a chat. 

Clara turned to take the key to room number 12 from the panel behind her. Peter put down his travel bag and reached for his wallet in one of his coat pockets. There was about two hundred dollars in cash, plus a few coins, but no credit card. He pulled out his driver's license for identification: the license was issued in Louisiana in 2016. Everything confirmed what Peter knew - his date and place of birth - but there was a new detail, an address _'17001 Hayne Blvd, New Orleans'_ , where he must have lived few years ago. But he did not remember. Everything seemed familiar to him, but the void was expanding more and more, burning his identity. He could see that monstrous abyss sliding under the door to devour him. It was just a matter of time.  
Peter suddenly felt defeated, annihilated. The awareness of not knowing who he was was slowly taking root in him.  
Clara must have sensed that something was wrong, or perhaps she didn't dare interrupt those thoughts in which she saw him deeply absorbed. She just checked the document without making any comments. When she handed Peter his license back, she just said "Thank you" and gave a discreet smile.  
Peter put back his driver's license in his wallet and paid.

"How many nights do you plan to stay?" Clara asked.  
"I'm not sure. I'm sorry. Maybe just tonight." If he only had about two hundred dollars, he had better go panhandling the next day.  
"No problem. It hardly ever happens to have all the rooms full." Clara reassured him and Peter forced a smile.  
"Well then. I'm - I'm going..."  
"First floor, penultimate room at the end of the corridor" Clara tried to instill some confidence in that man who could hardly keep eye contact.  
Before she was amused and intrigued by him, but in a few minutes everything had changed. She had perceived the unreachable wounded man, whose loneliness had to be treated with caution and respect. Now she also tried not to stare at him for too long.  
Clara bit her lower lip, somehow worried, and wished him: "Have a nice stay, Mr. Barnes"  
"Thank you, Miss Sullivan. Goodnight." he replied politely, before reaching the stairs.


	2. What's in the travel bag

_June 15, 2019 - Lenwood Breeze Motel (Lenwood, US)_

After leaving Clara, Peter was finally alone. He was _alone_.  
The sense of loneliness had become more real and defined as he walked along the corridor on the first floor, with its walls covered with yellowish wallpaper, and a red carpeted floor. At that hour, there was such silence that the motel seemed totally empty. Everything seemed more and more unreal. There was nothing strange about this motel - there was something strange about the whole reality, one might say - but Peter didn't feel safe for the first time on that absurd evening.  
He was _alone_. He couldn't count on anyone. What was worse, he could no longer trust himself.  
He felt a kind of paranoia rising in his mind, as he found himself thinking that Clara's kindness could only be a facade.  
Yes. How did she know he was there to sleep at the motel, when she invited him in? He could just be next to his car, right?  
Peter looked back, as if someone were suddenly to appear behind him or come out of the walls. After all, the carpet could muffle sounds.  
He stopped at the door of room 12 and held the key to the lock. He was incredibly tense.  
"Come on" he muttered to himself "you're just upset." 

Peter closed his eyes, but only for a moment, for he saw that darkness again, like a flash, terrifying him. His mind continued to gravitate around that, around the unspeakable. Was he going mad? He tried to take one slower, deeper breath, as he looked right, again toward the empty corridor.  
"Damn, it's just a motel room. Do you think ghosts will come for you?" he muttered again. Rationalizing helped him dealing with that emptiness inside and outside of him.  
"Well... in case of danger, you can... jump out the window."  
At least he was aware that he was talking to the inner self, and of how crazy it probably was.

Peter managed to enter the room, he turned on the yellow-toned light and closed the door for three times. He did all this with a painful weight at the bottom of his chest.  
He tried to focus on concrete things. The first necessary action, in his methodical nature, was to mentally take note of the layout of the room. It came spontaneously, like a habit. It made him feel in control and, therefore, calmer, keeping the irrational thoughts at bay.  
The room was simple but functional. On the left side of the room, there was a basic wardrobe first, followed by a single bed about six feet from the door, a bedside table with a lamp, and an armchair next to the window, which was instead on the opposite side of the door. A bathroom was to the right of the entrance. A little farther on, on the right, was a desk with a chair, not far from the window, so that the natural light could illuminate it; at one corner of the desk there was a small TV screen. In the room, just like the corridor, the walls were covered in a yellowish wallpaper with a classic neutral floral pattern, and the floor was all carpeted, except for the bathroom floor which was gray tiled.

Peter took a few minutes to settle into his room and to prepare for what he needed to do: try to find himself. By the time he felt ready, it was past eleven in the evening and the light rain outside had turned into a downpour. He put his travel bag and his coat on the bed.  
He started by emptying his coat's pockets. In addition to the wallet and the small guidebook he had taken from the reception desk, he found only a Samsung flip phone. Well, he wasn't particularly fond of technology - he knew that - but at the same time he was sure he wouldn't have a cell phone like that. A smartphone was absolutely necessary for his... job.  
Suddenly Peter found another certainty shining in his mind, another crack in the dark.  
He was a reporter. Yes, he was an _investigative reporter_ , he couldn't be anything else!  
These two simple words were more than a job actually: they defined his identity, as much as his name and surname. He _was_ an investigative reporter. For a moment, he felt proud of this definition, so much so that a shiver ran down his back, like a little boost of energy that nudged him to continue his research.  
He went back to the cell phone and opened it. The screen showed the time and date: it was June 15th. The cell phone had no Internet access, but Peter tried to check the call log and address book, finding both of them empty. It was probably a brand new phone.  
The situation took a different twist. Why would he travel with a new, empty cell phone that didn't belong to him? Now Peter was sure that there was something planned behind his memory loss. Maybe he was running away from a dangerous situation and something went wrong.  
He sat on the bed and tried to remember something, even a trivial detail. Again, it was like swimming in completely dark water where something was lurking, without being able to see anything. He moved among blurred impressions, like whispers he could not hear clearly, and few certainties that appeared in his mind almost randomly. Indeed, the harder he tried to remember, the less he could find.  
Peter sighed. He put his cell phone aside and finally opened his travel bag. 

The first thing that caught his attention was a large quantity of banknotes of different values, gathered in bundles. It looked like a loot.  
Was it possible that he had committed a robbery and escaped with the stolen money? It didn't seem possible to him - no, he was by no means a bad or corruptible person, but he couldn't trust himself now. It was absurd, because he was so sure what kind of person he was. Maybe the bag wasn't his.  
Inside, however, everything was perfectly tidy, everything was in the right position. And, besides the money, all the rest was familiar to him: there were some white shirts, some pairs of trousers similar to the ones he was already wearing, some underwear, some ties, and a case with his half rim glasses inside - he didn't know how, but he recognized them.  
There was no doubt, that travel bag was his. Perhaps he had simply withdrawn his savings all in cash. But why? Well, in any case, at least he had enough money to survive for several days. 

In the bag there were other three objects: a wooden box and two books, old and used, but well kept, namely a Bible and a collection of George Orwell's essays.  
Peter smiled faintly as he saw the Orwell's book. It was the only vague relief in that situation, a friendly presence that hadn't left him when everything else was gone. Peter slowly brought his hands to the book, he took it and stroked the old cover with devotion. Tears came to his eyes and he struggled to hold them back. He felt that the book contained his essence and had witnessed the past that Peter had forgotten, George Orwell had stayed with him all his life. Peter sniffed slightly, but didn't allow the tears to flow.

As for God? Peter looked at the Bible still in the bag. He was not a religious man, from what he could now feel inside himself. This is why his gaze was quite suspicious and apprehensive.  
The Bible was summoning up something deeply rooted in his mind, something as dark as the austere black cover.  
After a few seconds staring at it, he was sure: the Bible had something to do with his childhood and, above all, with that monster lurking in the darkness. So Peter hastened to get it, opened it, and scanned the first pages. It was then that he saw these lines written in red pen, underlining a verse. One single verse, Genesis 2:17 

_'but from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat from it you shall surely die'_

Peter read it in a whisper.  
He was shocked. Peter himself had underlined those words: he didn't remember it, but he knew it. And Peter would never, ever write in a book with a red pen.  
He searched frantically in all the other pages of the Bible, even though he already knew the answer in his heart. As expected, they were all immaculate.  
He feared to admit it to himself, but with every second that passed, an idea became clearer, closer, heavier, and more frightening.  
He was breathing faster now, overwhelmed by the awareness that the verse was a message from his past self. It was a _warning_. He did not know what the precise meaning the old Peter Barnes wanted to convey in that verse was, but he had certainly accomplished the purpose of shaking up the new Peter Barnes, the man without memory.  
All this confirmed that the memory loss was just a veil - or rather, a thick blanket of fog - on something terrible, from which Peter himself wanted to stay away. And as with the fog, he could only wait for the memory loss to clear. Perhaps his past self had planned all of this, including arriving in Lenwood, and now Peter only had to listen and trust, trying to live a quiet life. How could he live like this? 

Peter emerged from these thoughts and checked, page by page, also the George Orwell's book. Here too, in the same way as in the Bible, the old Peter had left a message, underlining a passage in the 1946 essay "The Prevention of Literature". It consisted of a few verses quoted by George Orwell and taken from a Revivalist hymn:

_'Dare to be a Daniel  
Dare to stand alone  
Dare to have a purpose firm  
Dare to make it known'_

Unlike the Bible verse, Peter understood better what those words meant, because he knew them deeply. They were his identity as a journalist: always seek the truth, even if you have to stand alone and fight alone, be faithful to the truth and have the courage to make it known. These words had guided him throughout his career, which he did not remember at all.  
The old self wouldn't even need to leave him this message. If he did, it was because he doubted that now Peter would remember it, or because he was desperate. This thought disturbed him.  
Furthermore, the verses in Orwell's essay seemed to have the opposite meaning of the Bible's message. Yet these messages were the only direct connection to his past and the only evidence of what Peter wanted before he lost his memory.  
He had to do what he felt right to do. He was now a lost man and it would be unwise to take rash actions. The old self was probably asking him to stop and stay out of trouble. Sooner or later, the truth would emerge.

The last thing he had left to discover was the box. It was a simple box of dark wood, not very large, with indefinite inlays on the top. Inside Peter found several photographs, most of which portrayed himself at different ages in his life. These photos were all that remained of his fifty-seven years. A couple of worn black and white photos even showed him as a child. Others were photos of landscapes, lakes, sunset skies. The Big Ben in a foggy London, New York. There was also a Polaroid showing a stilt house near the shore of a body of water, probably a lake.  
And then there was her, his wife, his beautiful, beloved Lix.


	3. Julian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Julian Janova is a character created by my extraordinary friend Helen, who is reading this work. She has allowed me to adapt her creation and I can't thank her enough for all the material she provided in the last two years and for the unconditional support she always gives me.
> 
> 2\. The geography of Kenlan County and Lenwood is loosely based on that of Knox County and Rockland (Maine) respectively. 
> 
> 3\. The words "It is truly right and just" are not a mistake.

_June 16, 2019 - Bryson Lake (Lenwood, US)_

On his first night at the motel, Peter barely slept. He spent most of the time in his bed, looking over and over at the photographs in the box and reading the guidebook he had taken from the reception desk.  
According to the guidebook, much of what you could dream of for your peaceful vacation could be found in Kenlan County: lakes and woods, mountains, clearings, rivers, cliffs, lighthouses, the ocean and several nearby, sometimes uninhabited islands. And then the tranquility, the distance from the usual hectic life, and small towns with friendly, welcoming people. Or so the guidebook said.  
Peter also learned that Lenwood was a small town with roughly 18,000 inhabitants and was located just over fifty miles southwest of Bangor. It stretched mainly north to south along a small bay, among the many inlets of Maine's jagged coastline. The closest city was Susank, a twenty-minute drive north along the coast.  
Just over two miles from the motel, on the nothern outskirts of Lenwood, was the largest lake in the area, the Bryson Lake, which stretched inland to the west.  
Peter decided to go there the next afternoon, after spending the morning exploring the area near the motel.  
It was about three in the afternoon when he was wandering in the park along the southern shore of the lake, the closest to the motel.  
Peter didn't want to venture into town until he became more familiar with his "new" self, or decided which lies to tell whoever met him, or understood how his mind worked now. So far, fleeting impressions would emerge from time to time, giving him absolutely random pieces of a fifty-seven-year-long puzzle. It felt good looking at the 16 photographs of Lix, because he could rebuild the memory of her appearance from them, but the same experience was disturbing when it came to the dozens of photos that showed a stranger aging through decades that had been erased. Peter had also wondered if Lix and him had a child, since one of his favourite photos showed Lix, presumably in her late twenties, with a newborn sleeping with his head resting on her chest. 

The calm, sunny lake had been a perfect background for his reflections. Peter felt a special connection with water: being close to and contemplating it made him feel more at peace with himself. To water - as reliable as a mother, as imponderable as a goddess - he could entrust his thoughts. Water would keep his secrets and lighten the burden. In the water he could float, or he could drown, if he wanted to. Water would always listen to him and care for him, unconditionally.  
After reaching one end of the park almost without noticing, Peter kept walking with the desire to get as close to the lake as possible, in order to make it absorb his heaviest thoughts and let him find some rest. He realised he was tired of thinking.  
He crossed the beach and he reached some wooden piers that stretched over the water for a few meters.  
A couple of teenagers were sunbathing on the beach while they were busy with their phones; a fisherman was returning from his boat, whistling, happy to have caught some fish.

On the same pier where Peter was walking, there was a young man sitting with his legs dangling over the water. A pair of black shoes were laid beside him. He appeared to be twenty-five or twenty-six. He was devouring a sandwich, and since he also looked very thin, with slightly sunken cheeks, he gave the impression that he hadn't eaten in days.  
Peter briefly observed that lone guy: he would not speak to him, he would simply pass by without disturbing. But the young man, having probably heard Peter's slow footsteps, turned to him and examined him with an inquiring look. Then he held out the sandwich towards Peter. 

"Hungry?" he asked with a hint of enthusiasm. 

At that point Peter had to stop, caught off guard by the offer. He glanced at that sandwich, holding back a grimace of disgust at the thought of eating something already put in someone else's mouth. He tried to distract himself before the idea became too strong and made him throw up in the lake. Thus he started talking in the right order. 

"Good afternoon." a greeting, first of all. "No, thank you. I've already had lunch." aloof but polite.  
Peter also nodded in thanks, but didn't smile, also because the young man was staring at him now. He had bright, green eyes and always that curious look, but Peter noticed quite pronounced dark circles. Over a simple blue shirt, the young man wore a brown coat with large pockets; the left one was fuller than the right one, a detail that Peter noticed immediately because of the asymmetry. The young man smiled, observing Peter's elegant, austere suit and his red tie.  
"I'm sure you know perfectly well what time you can go from 'Good afternoon' to 'Good evening'" and immediately after, looking at the sandwich that he brought back close to himself, he added "What a pity".

Peter was slightly impressed by that guy: he was undoubtedly an unusual person. Peter said nothing, not even when the young man turned back to the lake. He just stood behind the lad's back, looking down at him interested.  
"Will you explain it to me one day?" the young man asked spontaneously.  
Peter assumed he was referring to the greeting rules. Not knowing what to say, he shrugged: "One day"  
This response probably triggered some enthusiastic thought in the young man's mind, because he eagerly returned to eat his sandwich with the same voracious appetite as before. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Finally he spoke again, while studying Peter carefully:  
"Bob's bacon sandwiches are delicious, you know? The best sandwiches I've ever eaten. And I've had so many sandwiches in my life..."  
Those words might sound trivial but, at the end, the young man smiled in a quite enigmatic way, which led Peter to believe that the words were actually some kind of metaphor to be interpreted.  
Peter approached cautiously, moving to the side of the young man.  
"I was wondering..." the young man went on, staring at Peter "have you ever eaten a sandwich like this?"  
As ambiguous as it was, that question was seeking something - ironically - in Peter's memory. Peter could now perceive a clear intention to test him. Yet he could not be sure of the metaphor: sandwiches could represent the pleasure of food, or the life of simple, unpolished people. Peter, with his elegant clothes and his sober, distant bearing, probably didn't look like that kind of person. He was pretty sure he was a man of the world, though.  
"I've eaten a lot of them... even though I can't remember them." he decided to tell the truth, trusting that no one would ever take it literally. 

The young man was silent for a few seconds, then smiled and stated gently, perhaps satisfied with Peter's answer:  
"It is truly right and just to eat a lot of sandwiches. They're always so underrated, poor things. They're unhealthy, they say. But we've all eaten at least one sandwich in life. Even those who are vegan now."

"Mh" 

Peter was looking at the lake with an absent gaze, thinking how in the previous hours - actually since breakfast - he had found that he had no pleasure in eating. He ate out of necessity, just enough to stop feeling hungry, but he had to make a great effort to fight the lack of appetite. When he saw food, he felt despondent: it seemed something incompatible with his own body, even incomprehensible or dangerous. The only way he could eat was by dividing, counting, arranging the food in his plate. For this reason he only had a cup of coffee and a slice of bread for breakfast and spent about half an hour eating a meager lunch in the motel room, in order to avoid the shame and the pressure of stranger eyes on his aberrations.  
In short, he was quite the opposite of the young man there.  
Peter faced him again, noticing that he had changed his posture: he always was a little bent over, but now he sat with his back straight, chin up and shoulders back, as if he wanted to mimic Peter's posture. Peter found it funny, but did not smile. He just asked: "What's your name?"  
"Julian. Julian Janova"  
The young man extended a handshake, but Peter did not reciprocate, because he did not want to have any trace of that sandwich on his own hand. Food.  
He reciprocated only with a nod, which left Julian a bit puzzled but with a glimpse of curiosity in his eyes.  
"Do I have a Julian face in your opinion?"  
Again that young man caught Peter off guard. This time, however, Julian got a vague amused smile from Peter, who pretended to study Julian's face in order to answer the question. That playfulness lasted only for a moment, then Peter faced the lake, frowning.  
"I don't believe in such things. A name is just a name. I'm Peter Barnes, by the way."

Silence fell, but Peter felt Julian's gaze scrutinizing him, so much so that Peter was about to walk away without a word.  
As if he had sensed Peter's intent and wanted to hold him back, Julian voiced another of his odd remarks, but this time in a more mature and thoughtful tone.  
"It's June and the water is still so cold. Why?"  
Peter felt again the presence of a subtle meaning beneath the surface of those innocent words. He did not answer and kept looking intently at the lake: he imagined disappearing into it, to protect himself, to finally rest.  
"I wonder what would happen if, one day, someone tried to dive into such waters." Julian added in an ambiguous tone that put Peter on the alert. "Certainly he should be a skilled swimmer, ready for the cold and any possible storm. Even the calmest of lakes can prove to be treacherous, after all." he went on.  
Did this mean that Julian wanted to dig through the rubble and find out the truth?  
"Am I wrong?"

Peter tried not to look afraid and insecure: he adjusted his tie, but that gesture couldn't make him feel safer this time, it did not take away those eyes that were trying to search his soul.  
Peter managed to keep his voice steady and impassive: until proven otherwise, _he_ was in control. He played the same game as Julian, taking refuge in a metaphor.

"I think we must first ask ourselves why someone tries to dive into such waters. We always have to ask ourselves the reason for things, Mr. Janova. One might dive to cross the lake, in order to go somewhere. Or one might dive because he wants to _stay_ in the lake. Most of the time a lake sees itself be crossed by people, without ever being the recipient of anything. Only few, misunderstood exiles are capable of an act of extreme love." He meant dying of course.  
He wondered if Julian had understood this two-way metaphor. Peter wasn't sure where he got those words from - certainly from the pressure of the moment, yes - but there was more. He realized, to his surprise, that he didn't want to cut out that young man, the one person who had tried to understand something profound about his neighbor. 

Julian was now carefully watching their reflection in the shallow water beneath his bare feet.  
"What if one dives for hunger?" Julian asked casually, though the question was not at all casual. He had a sly smile on his face, yet never disrespectful, and he almost showed himself off, letting himself be observed without hesitation, as much as Peter was elusive.  
"It is a selfish reason, but a legitimate one. I think it all depends on what the appetites are. There are probably fish in the lake... but the lake does not know. The lake is unaware of itself." Peter moved away, leaving only that masked truth behind him.  
Just one step.  
"Oh Peter... underneath that gray hair lies a mind that still has so much to discover." Julian surprised him with an informal and confident tone, as if he had known Peter for a lifetime. Peter turned and met Julian's amused gaze. That look, innocent as it was, scared him, made him feel vulnerable, naked. He was staring speechless at Julian in a silent request for explanation. Suddenly he was out of control: he couldn't even stop the nervous fidgeting of his fingers. He was trying hard not to display his emotions, but he was probably just glaring at Julian.  
Yet the young man spoke to him serenely: "In the depths of the deepest sea, a light is hidden. It is dim, distant, almost extinguished. But once it is reached, the lake will finally be aware of itself."

Peter was paralyzed, he was no longer able to think, his mind was suddenly empty. He wanted to cry, he wanted to escape, but he couldn't. He could not move.  
Julian grabbed his own black shoes as if nothing was happening.  
"And how much the man fears those who are self-aware..." Julian added, glancing at Peter who, in turn, felt trapped in a nightmare, one of those nightmares where you scream but no voice comes out, no one sees, no one hears. Why was Julian acting so normally? Why couldn't he see?  
"Do you like casinos, Peter?" he asked, and then stood up.  
That gesture broke the nightmare and, without the slightest rational thought, Peter stammered: "I don't remember. I have no... no memory, I don't know who I am. Leave me alone. Leave me alone."  
"Peter..." Julian called in a faint voice, as if he had just witnessed something totally unexpected. He looked at Peter with wide eyes.

Peter ran away in terror. He had no idea how fast he was running - maybe he was just walking fast. No, he wasn't running: only his breathing was fast, his heart was beating like a war drum. He was crying and Julian's voice was still in his ears: "Find your peace, Peter! Go to the Tyche Casino. Before that thought devours you!"

The two teenagers on the beach laughed at a man running away in tears.


	4. Letters from Lenwood

_June 17, 2019 - Lenwood Breeze Motel (Lenwood, US)_

Clara Sullivan was busy tending flowers and plants in the back yard of the motel, just below a window through which Peter could catch a glimpse of her and her wide-brimmed hat. He was sitting in an armchair, alone in the lounge on the ground floor. He wasn't really paying attention to her, he was just absorbed in his thoughts. Gazing at Clara and stroking repeatedly the wedding ring with his thumb kept him from drifting in the dark.  
Peter was wearing his half-rim glasses; he had a pen in his hand and a notebook on his lap. He had bought them from a nearby shop, after having breakfast at Moe's House where he could also read the Bangor Daily News.  
One of the fuzzy memories that surfaced as Peter examined his photos was that he always had a Moleskine with him to take notes, like the old-school reporter he was. He had remembered loving specifically Moleskines not only because they were excellently made notebooks, but also because they drew on the notebooks of great writers and artists, such as Hemingway, Wilde, or Van Gogh. This was probably the only little vanity that he secretly allowed himself. Unfortunately, there was no Moleskine in the shop, but this was no time to be picky. He had decided to try writing a diary, now that his memory was almost completely destroyed, and any pocket notebook with a black cover and plain pages could be useful to the purpose.  
Soon Peter found that writing a diary was not easy at all. It was bizarre, since he was a reporter and writing a daily account of his activities was not all that different. On the other hand, a journalist always writes about others, always writes for an audience, describing the facts and the truth as objectively as possible. A real diary was at the same time the exact opposite of journalism. It was particularly difficult to find a way to begin, to overcome the shame of vanity in writing about oneself and to make one's interiority explicit and concrete.  
He had already written a page, choosing his words carefully, but also trying to let his thoughts flow, not to suffocate them under the careful scrutiny of reason.

His reflections were interrupted by the thin, hesitant voice of a little girl who had perhaps been watching him for some time.  
"Hello"  
Peter turned his head to that little girl who was maybe six or seven. He immediately remembered that photo of Lix with a baby: he had concluded that it was probably just a coincidence, since no other photo showed children. Peter continued to stroke the wedding ring, not to give in to the discomfort he felt in having to interact with that little girl without having absolutely planned it.  
He looked at her in silence, with a serious and a bit questioning look, and then waited, while examining her little blue dress with a colorful floral pattern on her chest, impatiently hoping that she would leave soon.  
"Good morning" he finally replied, since the little girl was just staring at him with curious and innocent eyes, as children do to explore something new and possibly interesting. Peter wondered where she had come from, as he hadn't seen any children in the motel until now.  
The little girl continued to study Peter instead of talking.  
"What do you want?" Peter urged her, now in a quite terse tone.  
"What's your name?" the girl asked candidly.  
"Mr. Barnes" he certainly did not want to risk her calling him Peter.  
"Yup" she pondered "But what's your _real_ name?" the little girl went on, determined to explore the mysterious man.  
Peter looked her straight into her brown eyes, and noticed that she had a round face that reminded him of Clara's, but there were no other particular similarities.  
"Mr. Barnes" he reiterated. As expected, the little girl did not understand that surname thing, the same way Peter did not know how to treat that creature who, moreover, was a totally unpredictable variable. "And what about you?" he tried to be as polite and tender as possible.  
"Emma"  
Unfortunately, she was not done with the strange man in elegant clothes. "What are you writing?"  
Peter swallowed and looked back at the notebook lying on his lap. He clicked the pen three times before deciding what to say.  
"A letter" he answered sincerely, in an elusive and sad tone. _'My beloved Lix'_ so the diary began. He stared at those first words, written in neat handwriting, the way his Lix deserved.  
"To whom?" the little girl insisted with her innocence, the only thing that saved her from getting an irritated response this time.  
"To my wife"  
"I write the letter to Santa on a paper sheet. Yeah... then you have to put it in an envelope, you have to stick a stamp, and you have to send it. Why do you use a notebook?" Emma remarked.  
Peter glanced quickly at her and again clicked the pen three times.  
"I don't have to send this letter"  
"Oh... okay" the little girl was quite confused, but this time she maybe perceived the detachment with which Peter was talking to her.  
"You're weird" she said candidly. It didn't sound like a criticism, but not an appreciation either.  
"Mh. ... What are you doing here?"  
"I was playing" Emma said, twisting her dress a little and smiling. "Why are you writing a letter if you don't have to send it? Why are you writing to your wife? Is she far away?"  
Those questions hurt, Emma had unknowingly crossed the line. Peter would have told her to go away and go back to play, if Clara hadn't appeared at that moment, almost alarmed by an impending disaster.  
"Emma! Don't - don't bother Mr. Barnes!" with a few quick glances Clara assessed the situation. She put her hands on Emma's shoulders, a detail that Peter noticed immediately: it was a gesture of protection, rather than reproach or control.  
"It doesn't matter. She didn't bother me." Peter replied seriously, avoiding eye contact.  
"I'm sorry Mr. Barnes" the little girl said, just because she was well-behaved and that was the standard answer to give.  
Peter nodded, accepting the apology, and Clara gently pushed Emma "Come on, go play in the yard honey."  
The little girl, disappointed that she could no longer ask her questions, left the room. Clara, however, remained. Peter pretended nothing happened and tried to find a remedy for the situation. Three clicks of the pen, the ring was still there under his thumb, he was in control.  
"Is Emma your daughter?" Peter asked politely.  
"Ahm - yes. You... You know what children are like. I mean... they are nosy but they don't do it maliciously." Clara talked nervously, trying to justify the child but not to please Peter.  
Peter was not looking at her, in order to avoid a mutual burden; he sat serious, almost motionless.  
"Not a problem, really. Your daughter is pretty smart, Ms Sullivan." Peter sighed slightly and added "I wouldn't have hurt her, by the way" with subtle but brutal honesty, and a hint of sadness in his tone.

Clara was silent. She evidently had grasped the meaning of those words but did not know how to answer. She took a cautious step toward Peter who was evaluating, without looking, her reaction, her response time, her manner. The feeling that Clara knew more than she showed hadn't abandoned Peter since the first night.  
"So... are you enjoying Lenwood, Mr. Barnes?" Clara asked in an attempt to temper that strange atmosphere.  
Peter ended up looking at the black sneakers on her feet.  
"Yes, I've been to the lake. The shoelaces are loose." he gestured to her, pointing the left shoe. His voice showed the urge to see those laces tightened again properly. That knot almost on the verge of unraveling horrified him. Even before Clara could satisfy that implicit request, Peter was taken by anguish, seeing how - if those laces were not tightened precisely - Clara's foot would rot, causing her death, and he would have to hang himself with those laces.  
Peter jumped to his feet, dropping the notebook and the pen, and even though Clara was already bent over to adjust the laces, he came up and bent down quickly.  
"I'll do it." The words sounded like an order, perhaps even a little abrupt.  
"No..." Clara protested, trying to push Peter's hands away. He froze for a moment as he felt the woman's touch.  
"No... I have to be sure..." Peter murmured, trying again to get to those laces. Clara must have sensed something and sighed, letting him tighten the laces carefully, three times. Then Peter paused for a moment before getting up in shame. He adjusted his tie in order to stay calm, now that the horrible vision was gone.  
"Don't ever do that again Mr. Barnes" Clara warned him, trying to keep a gentle tone "I can tie my shoes myself, okay?"  
She understood, at least partially, but she didn't approve.  
Peter pursed his lips and nodded in apology, without meeting Clara's gaze. He silently went back to the armchair and picked up the notebook and the pen, hating himself for how he had acted and for those images. While his heart was still beating rapidly, he tried not to end the conversation that way.  
"I was wondering... do you know where the Tyche Casino is?" he asked gently.  
The question seemed to surprise Clara who looked at Peter as if she didn't expect someone like him to frequent a casino.  
"Umh... do you like casinos?"  
"No" he replied instinctively, realizing only a moment later that he had just learned another thing about himself. "So, do you know where it is?"  
"Sure. Ahm, near Fordfield Point - you can follow the signs to the lighthouse - is the Samoset Resort. The Casino is part of the Resort."  
"Okay... thank you" Peter stood looking at her and fidgeting with the pen.  
"I'll leave you alone, Mr. Barnes"  
"Yes, thank you. I have... a lot to do." he replied politely "Have a nice day, Ms Sullivan"

As soon as he was alone again in the lounge, Peter sat back in the armchair, sighed and rubbed his forehead to calm down. He tried to focus on his diary, double-checking what he had written so far before he could continue his letter. 

_'My beloved Lix,  
I have thought this is the best way to still have you close. I don't think I have ever written a diary before, so I hope you will forgive me for all my inexperience. I am in this small town, Lenwood, Maine: it looks like a quiet place, nestled between the woods and the ocean. I think I remember that stilt house I saw on the Polaroid, you know? I remember sitting on a terrace overlooking a lake, there was silence and peace, as if we were far from the world. That's all.  
Anyway, I am a stranger here and yet, from the first moment, I've got the distinct feeling that some people here know me, despite saying otherwise. I don't know what my purpose is, if there is one: I think I have to settle down and wait I don't know what, I don't know for how long. I seem to be guided by forces unknown to me and by instincts that I cannot recognize.  
Last night I woke up with a start, sweaty and terrified, unable to remember my nightmare. I felt observed by the shadows on the ceiling, I checked that there was no one under the bed, in the wardrobe, beyond the door, in the bathroom. I checked the walls and I made sure that the tv was really off. I felt controlled, swallowed up, trapped. I could barely stand up, and there was absolutely nothing around me. I curled up in bed weeping and found some solace in hearing the distant cry of a nocturnal bird. I picked up a photo of you, the one where you wear your red coat and smile, and I tried to imagine you sitting next to me, even if the fear didn't leave me until morning. How did you die Lix? How could I have forgotten you? What sound did your voice have?  
See, I have to write all these things down, because I'm afraid of forgetting everything again.'_

He added some sentences:  
_'I have the impression that Clara knows something about me, just like Julian. She is afraid of me to some extent, she feared that I might harm her daughter.  
Lix, am I a good man?'_


	5. Breakfast with massacre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murray "Moe" Patton looks like Mr.Shaibel in "The Queen's Gambit" (actor: Bill Camp)

_June 18, 2019 - Moe's House_

Like every morning for three days now, Peter walked into Moe's House at eight o'clock. He had quickly created a strict routine, which he absolutely needed in order not to sink into emptiness and confusion. Routines, essential bricks, rails on which his mind was forced to stay: as long as he did so, he could keep away that monster that he felt crawling in the depths of his mind.  
So, for example, every night before trying to sleep (usually in vain), he would go through the photographs, one by one. Every morning, at the diner, he always got some toasts and a cup of coffee and he always chose the same table, where he could sit with his back to the wall and check out the outside from the glass window next to him, as well as the entrance, of course. Basic survival rules for an investigative reporter.  
It was Tuesday, and only Moe, the owner, was in the diner. He was a tall, stout man in his sixties; usually he was behind the counter, mostly silent and serious. Richard, the chatty young man who worked there as a waiter, explained to Peter from day one that Moe's real name was Murray Patton. Fun fact: the sister, co-owner of the diner, was called Monroe, so they both actually called themselves Moe. 

"Good morning Moe"  
The usual table was free and Moe had already left a copy of the Bangor Daily News on it.  
"Peter, how are you? Take the usual?"  
Peter sat down. _Lix sat down too, opposite to him_.  
"Yes, please."  
First thing first, he arranged all the objects on the table, including the notebook and the pen he had brought with him, simply because he would not leave them unattended for any reason.  
_'So, are you going to the casino today?'_ Lix asked, watching him as his nervous fingers placed and aligned the objects precisely. Did Lix know about these obsessions? What did she think of them? Was this her real voice? Whether it was this or not, it was the first time she had spoken to him and her voice turned off everything else, all thoughts were suspended.  
_'I'm not ready yet. I'm working on it, you know...'_  
Lix was about to reply, but Peter's attention was caught by the headline on the newspaper's front page:

**Letter from the killer of the Bangor Gardens massacre**

Before taking the newspaper to read the article, he noticed his natural inclination for crime news - not a morbid curiosity, to be fair - it was due to his job, the classic professional deformation. The previous mornings he had read the newspaper to get updated and have a general idea of what was happening around him, but today that article about a killer and a massacre had triggered something different, a particular interest. He was familiar with blood and violence. Peter watched Lix playing with the pen.  
He was pierced by an atrocious doubt, appearing out of nowhere, in the middle of Lix's immaculate image.  
_'What if I am the killer?'_  
Lix gave him a sidelong glance in disbelief, clearly considering it a nonsense popping up out of nowhere.  
_'Don't be ridiculous Peter'_ she said in a determined tone and sighed with a little smile.  
Moe arrived with the order, while Peter was staring into space with a strange face.  
"Are you okay?" Moe muttered discreetly.  
Peter just nodded, while carefully arranging the cup and the plate on the table, unable to get rid of that doubt and the image of Clara protecting his daughter from him. The hunger vanished, like every single morning.  
_'You haven't sent any letters to the Bangor Daily News these days'_ Lix argued, though it was easy to object to this claim.

In fact, Peter preferred not to answer and began to read the article, after having carefully unfolded the newspaper that was folded in half. The article was actually short, just a couple of columns. Although it was on the front page, it was clearly a story that the editors had preferred not to (or could not) give too many details about.  
The article only reported that the killer who had masterminded the massacre of May 14 had sent a letter to the Bangor Daily News offices, directly claiming responsibility for the murders.  
The killer had signed 'OLUXCKHN' - an encrypted message, according to the reporter - and had declared his motivations and intentions in the letter. The article reported directly the main passage: 

_'Every living species in nature must fight to survive the time itself. Nature is based on the law of the survivor, the one who demonstrates that he is defending his life more strongly. Humans must prove their will to live, as expected. It is the right work to do and the work is beyond our comprehension, purging the world of the weakest members of the race, so that only the worthiest survive. This way they will be led to Heaven.'_

_'Pathetic'_ Lix commented sternly, almost irritated _'Not even original whatsoever! A bunch of ideas picked up here and there. Don't you dare think this is you. Even if you were a serial killer, which you are not, you would have done better.'_  
An original way of paying a compliment.  
"Never underestimate ignorance." Peter replied pensively. He was constantly stroking the wedding ring, as he tried to imagine what kind of person could have written that message, by analysing its structure and the words used, one by one. It was probably the same meticulous analysis he would have done if he was still working as a reporter. Once a journalist, always a journalist: it could be his motto.  
_'I'm not underestimating it. I hate that you are still questioning yourself.'_  
He bought time by taking a few sips of coffee.  
Lix was right, he was just avoiding that doubt. But while he probably could not identify himself with that serial killer, there was still something dangerous about him.  
_'You may have misinterpreted that gesture'_ Lix suggested.  
Peter made her understand with a simple look that the possibility was out of question. It was more likely him to be the serial killer and just having forgotten it. Lix sighed.  
_'What are you going to do?'_ she asked then, pointing to the headline.  
"Absolutely nothing... I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to." he muttered to himself, starting the sentence with sadness and resignation and ending it with some frustration.  
_'I agree. Focus on the casino.'_  
"But I'll keep an eye on the developments"  
_'Of course.'_  
"Maybe Moe can tell me something about the massacre. They haven't written anything."  
_'You seriously call him Moe'_ she remarked, greatly amused as much as aware that using the first name was against the rules and using a diminutive was _absolutely_ against the rules.  
"In my mind I call him Mr. Patton" he made it short. He certainly did not need to explain why he had made an exception for Moe.  
_'All right'_

Peter turned to Moe who was behind the counter. He was staring at Peter.

"What?"  
"Were you talking to yourself..." a question that lacked the interrogative tone was just a polite way of affirming the facts.

_Shit._

"No, I was just thinking. I think..." Peter adjusted his tie three times to keep his composure. Three times to draw a safe line between him and those eyes. "I think out loud, usually. Listen... what's this about the massacre of Bangor Gardens?"  
Moe stared at the newspaper for a few seconds; you could not tell from his shadowy face if he felt sorry for that appalling event, or if he was just trying to gather his thoughts and decide what to tell Peter. Then he rapidly checked the other tables with a glance and, as there was no one to attend on, he decided to go and sit opposite to Peter.  
Lix slid a bit farther, pulling herself against the glass window, and looked at Moe with an annoyed frown. Don't you ask for permission to sit down? Especially if you sit next to a lady, with a bulky body like yours. Rude!

"Well..." he began with his deep but low voice. He seemed almost intimidated, or a bit uncomfortable at least, as he was about to tell that story "I can only tell you what I saw on tv or read in the newspaper. A month ago they caught this guy - his name was Conrad Fox - walking down the street covered in blood. They said he was upset and out of his mind. He was screaming nonsense. Obviously the cops arrested him and went into the house that Conrad Fox had just left. And there they found four corpses, mutilated, they said." 

Moe spoke cautiously, as if retracing that news were some kind of violence he perpetrated against the victims. This made his tone mysterious and almost reticent. Perhaps he also found it odd that Peter was inquiring and listening to him quietly and detached. Moe frowned and went on "Not even a month later, so a few days ago, it was said on the tv news that Conrad Fox and the other four people had actually been lured to that house and had been forced to fight and kill each other. There was also an old woman... disgusting.  
In short, Conrad Fox had killed the other four people, but he was part of a 'game' planned by a killer. I don't really know what to think. They say all the five victims - well, Fox and the others - went to that house of their own free will! "  
"And nothing else has been discovered?"  
Moe shrugged "Nothing that was reported by the newspaper."  
As Peter looked again at Lix, he realized that his mind refused to dwell on all the ideas that had run in his head while Moe was speaking. He could not focus. He was _tired_. Perhaps he was fed up with investigation. That initial interest faded sadly into the same fog that hid his memories, reminding him that he was no longer his younger self, whoever he was, and the younger self had left a clear message. 

Peter turned to Moe with a duller look and a grim expression. Moe was already getting up.  
"Thanks Moe."  
"You better eat those toasts"  
Peter could not tell if Moe was disappointed or if it was just his way of expressing concern. He probably regretted telling that story without perceiving any horror from the other side, no interest in the victims. Maybe he was returning the same coldness to Peter.  
Mr. Patton's reaction, for some reason, was the only thing that suddenly occupied Peter's mind, haunting him.  
Moe went back to the counter and Peter stared at the toasts for a long time, feeling nauseated. He had run out of thoughts and felt as confused as the first day he got here.  
_'Thoughts will return Peter'_  
_'I don't think I want them. I just want to sleep.'_  
_'You are not lucid enough now'_  
He could not argue with that truth.  
_'You should really eat those toasts. You look terrible.'_  
_'You have no idea what I look like. You are not really here. You're just me going crazy.'_


	6. The nobleness of gambling (part 1)

_June 19, 2019 - Tyche Casino_

For the past two days, Peter had been mostly holed up in the motel room. He thought over and over again about the information he had on the massacre, but apparently his mind refused to analyse that case properly. Every time he tried, he felt exhausted.  
He had written to Lix that it was exactly like being in front of a puzzle that you once could solve in a short time, whereas now you have no idea of how to put two pieces together. It was sad and frustrating to feel stupid, or worse ill, and not being able to understand what the clues are suggesting to you.  
He was a journalist. He wanted to - he needed to - work and devote himself to whatever mystery; yet the biggest enigma inhabited his own body.  
Instead of getting busy, he had spent most of his time lying on the bed looking at the ceiling or the photographs. He still had the decency to go through his daily routine, because it was the only thing that forced him going from one day to the next.

Now it was Wednesday night and Peter was staring at a statue, with his usual straight posture and his hands behind his back. The statue of Tyche, the Greek goddess of fortune, stood in the center of the massive circular lobby, right after the entrance to the opulent casino. A remarkable detail was that the arches supporting the lobby's roof structure radiated from the great horn held by the goddess, as if she gave life to the whole place.  
As Clara had anticipated, the casino was part of an exclusive resort, a small world for wealthy people, surrounded by golf courses. It was a society Peter did not belong to: this had been clear to him ever since he had crossed the confines of the resort and even more when he had entered the casino. He immediately felt a visceral feeling of distrust; he was not at all enchanted by the luxury, nor tempted by the aspiration to that lifestyle. Instead he was aware that the murkiest people and interests often lurked in such places.

He had asked for Julian to a young man from the staff who had materialized out of nowhere and had greeted him at the entrance, demonstrating the degree of invisible control with which these places were manned. Peter had to lie, in a way, declaring he had an appointment with Julian.  
It was hard to admit, but as much as he was frightened by this meeting, Julian was the only person Peter wanted to see. He needed to hear someone speaking to his mind in a deeper way, when everything else was meaningless or silent. Maybe Julian could help him to feel something other than void and confusion.  
In the meantime, Peter preferred to admire the statue rather than familiarize himself with that place he despised, a place where, at best, people throw away their money in useless, addictive pleasures, or gain it without merit and honesty. The exceptions were rare. 

Julian appeared a few minutes later, this time dressed in elegant clothes that included a black vest and a simple white shirt. He looked neat, but the dark circles and his sunken cheeks made him appear a bit sickly. Julian moved closer and put his hands behind his back, in a clumsy imitation of Peter's posture.  
"Who would have thought that? You really came." Julian began.  
His inquiring green eyes studied Peter right away, with a happy and proud look. Julian was clearly satisfied that he had confidently predicted this event.  
Peter, instead, was observing him with much more circumspection, since he felt quite tense, not fully in control. No words seemed safe or adequate, thus he austerely looked at the statue again.

"Are you afraid of losing track of time by entering the heart of the Casino or have you been enchanted by its beauty from your first steps, Peter?"  
Julian had a theatrical way of speaking: it was somewhat funny. However, Peter didn't appreciate the intrusiveness of his own first name pronounced as if they were longtime friends. It reminded him of how vulnerable he actually was.  
"Casinos are not my cup of tea. I hate gambling."  
"You don't like it because you don't _know_ it. There is a great nobleness in gambling, Peter." Julian affirmed with his usual confidence.  
Peter regarded the young man attentively and Julian actually enjoyed being observed, exactly like the first time they met. He kept imitating Peter's posture and smiled, amused. There was an absurd innocence in his eyes, like that of children. Nevertheless, Julian exuded a remarkable authority that fascinated Peter, almost obsessively. Peter was not even sure that everybody could notice it.  
"If you say so..." Peter sighed. Right now his relationship with casinos and gambling was not important.  
"What do you want from me, Mr. Janova?" he asked earnestly. Peter had no intention of going into the casino until he received an answer.

Julian shrugged and added: "It's very simple. I want to show you that there is a truth you don't know." Julian smiled a bit more cryptically and leaned his back slightly towards Peter "As I told you, your mind still has so much to discover."

"Always."

"And you haven't finished deciding what to believe or not."

"This seems to imply that - in your opinion - I'm convinced I know the whole truth already, and have stopped thinking." Peter replied almost indifferently.  
It was a dangerous move, but he was testing Julian. He had to understand and learn how Julian 'worked', hence the strategy was to converse on neutral topics and evaluate the logic of his counterpart's answers, in order to be able to defend himself later. At the moment Julian had most of the strategic advantage.  
For a second, Peter felt again the thrill of what was left of his old self, the investigative reporter. This must have been his way of working, when his mind was still functioning properly. He tried to cling to that good feeling and to stay concentrated. 

"Good Heavens, no..." Julian put again a smile on his haggard face. "You have whetted my hunger, Peter."  
This was undoubtedly a metaphor referring to their conversation at the lake.  
"Why" Peter insisted. Julian was still not giving him a real answer, but he was damn good at intriguing him with that histrionic nature. Julian resonated unlike anything else.  
"What intrigues me now is... what made you really come here, Peter? Was it the fear that my thought might devour you or... are you hungry?"

Peter turned to the statue with an absent look, charged with a pungent and subtle melancholy. He stroked his wedding ring.  
"There's not much left to devour" he muttered, mostly to himself.  
Had he come to find out what Julian really knew about him? He wasn't really sure anymore.  
He had come because he didn't know what to do, because he felt stupid and desperate.

"Well" Julian replied, suddenly sitting up on his knees, with his back slightly extended towards the statue and his hands resting on his thighs.  
"If you had stopped thinking, you would not be here. You see, the minds of ignorant people are very simple: a thought enters and after about - three seconds and thirty cents it comes out."  
Peter stood almost motionless studying Julian. No detail in him was as casual as it may seem.  
Julian went on, in his typical friendly fashion: "I think your mind has not been teased for a long time by realities unknown to you. You will agree with me that this is a real waste, Peter."  
"What makes you believe that?"  
"The fact that you are here. By the way, you didn't tell me if you're hungry. Would you like something to drink?"  
Peter had not realised that Julian was literally referring to hunger in that previous question.  
"Oh... no, thank you, Mr. Janova." he said quickly. There was a detail he wanted to understand. "Three seconds and thirty cents?"  
Three seconds and thirty cents was a very precise time: were they random numbers or did they have a meaning, even a grain of truth?

Julian got to his feet slowly, with a neat movement. He also stretched his shoulders from that uncomfortable position he had previously assumed.  
“Oh yes, Peter. I have dealt with many ignorant people. And too many times I have hoped to instill in them a thought, a small drop of the Truth. But they... After three seconds and thirty cents they were back to square one. And you know, after a while even the most patient person in the cosmos ends up rolling their eyes."

Knowing how Julian reasoned was proving interesting. The young man's words filled his head and gave him something to think about. He could finally get away from himself and be only a spectator and observer of another life. He liked this idea. Perhaps this Truth Julian was talking about had nothing to do with him.

"Peter, what do you know about casinos?" Julian asked and narrowed his gaze at Peter, evaluating him.  
Peter reflected for a moment, but then he answered as sincerely as he could "I don't know"  
A spark of satisfaction flashed in Julian's green eyes: "Very good." and he turned away from Peter, keeping his hands behind his back in that strange imitation.  
Without further ado, he began walking towards the interior of the casino, bypassing the statue of Tyche, heading for the corridor that led to several game rooms. He walked slowly, convinced that Peter would have followed him.  
Peter sighed like one who has to keep up with a child before setting off, embarking on who knows what journey or navigation to get to the alleged truth at the heart of that almost unknown young man. He seemed to have chosen Peter to be his privileged observer.  
"Mh. You know, Mr. Janova? You seem quite knowledgeable about your truth" Peter commented bluntly. A strangely genuine, childish happiness appeared again on Julian's face.  
"Of course I am!" he affirmed with the same confidence with which he continued to move forward. Peter walked just a step behind him, at his side. 

"Just out of curiosity..." Julian sought Peter's gaze "why don't you ever call me by name? It has to do with etiquette, doesn't it?"  
"In a way" Peter replied, a bit enigmatically. "And you? Why do you always call me by name?" he asked back, quite sure that there was a reason, as for every other apparently random detail from Julian.  
Julian was silent for a few instants and allowed himself only a slight smile.  
"Who can tell?" he murmured theatrically, shrugging "Maybe it's because good manners advise against it. Or maybe it's because you remind me of someone and I'm trying desperately not to confuse you. Or maybe it's because I like the sound that comes out of my lips when I say your name. Pe-ter."

Peter avoided delving deeper into that point: it could be dangerous. 

Julian quickly filled the silence. He stopped in the middle of the corridor, in front of the entrance to a cardroom, covered by elegant black curtains, and announced theatrically, as if that casino were the stage for his personal show:  
“You see, this place is completely detached from time and space. Here, any man or woman, any powerful or miserable individual, is convinced that they can be anything they want to be... and that they can have everything they want."

Peter looked around with short, uninterested glances. In fact, as always, he just needed to make a mental note of the structure of the place, but his full attention was and should remain dedicated to Julian.  
"Mh. ...but?" Peter suggested what he expected to come after Julian's words.  
Julian's fingers slowly stroked the fabric of the curtains. Peter could tell there was something morbid in that gesture.  
"But they are nothing more than souls constantly looking for something." declared the young man, in a tone that became solemn in the span of a second.  
Peter was watching him without missing a single detail.  
"Look at them Peter" Julian added, though it wasn't a literal invitation, as the curtains were still closed and protected by his fingers. Julian's nose almost touched the fabric.  
"The purging souls seek rest from the stressful daily life. The slackers, the lazy ones seek easy gain right there, among those tables." his fingers squeezed the ends of the curtains in a slow, firm fist.  
Then Julian opened the curtains a little, letting a glimpse of the crowded gaming tables.  
"And, because they are sinners, they must be reduced to misery. One after the other." Julian revealed with a calm, slow, and cold tone, while his eyes remained fixed on the gaming tables. "Until the last piece."  
Julian inhaled and turned to Peter to study his reaction.  
Peter was there, studying him, composed and serious as usual. He did not feel any fear, although the message written by that killer immediately came to his mind.  
He would never draw any hasty conclusion, but the idea naturally crossed his mind. Peter was just fascinated and completely immersed in his role as a spectator and scholar of that unusual human being.

"Brilliant minds, pious souls" Julian continued "have the sacred duty and task of depriving the miserly of material goods, confronting the slothful with a choice, punishing the lustful with temptation, humiliating the proud, corroding the envious, fattening up the gluttonous, and inflaming the angry." and after having listed the punishments for the seven deadly sins, Julian turned to Peter with a satisfied smile "Here it is, the nobleness of gambling."

Peter looked at Julian for a few moments, like a scientist would observe a fascinating phenomenon with an analytical gaze. He recognized in his own mind a rare moment of lucidity, in which he was able to fully feel himself, albeit without memories. He was far from his pain, out of the black hole's orbit, and he felt better. He had succeeded.  
Once again, Peter tried to hold to that fragile balance; he knew it wouldn't last long.  
He silently shifted his gaze to the game room and looked at it in that new light he had embraced thanks to Julian.  
Being a journalist means understanding the reality of other people and, to fully understand it, one has to abandon his own preconceptions. So, in that moment, the only truth that mattered was Julian's, the only eyes to look through were his.  
Peter looked back at the young man, who could be the Bangor's killer as far as Peter knew, but he didn't care at all. He was in front of a story, thus he would have saved this story until he was able to hear it all. He wouldn't let it slip away.  
"It's a fascinating vision" Peter pondered "I guess your job in this sort of purgatory is to do justice."  
"It's a sacred duty. A sacred duty and task." Julian specified and Peter nodded, taking note, with sincere and deep interest.  
"This Earth is teeming with unclean beings who commit wickedness every day, remaining unpunished. These sinners do not deserve the precious gift that is life." Julian declared, taking a deep breath "They destroy, use, and abuse the purest souls. They do everything to bring them down with them, into ruin."  
Julian shrugged.  
" _It's just one game, you'll see, you'll like it_ " he imitated a hypothetical more high-pitched voice, possibly a seductive one "A second, a third, a fourth game, and... the gambling addict is born."

Peter kept his eyes on Julian, reflecting on what he had just heard.  
Then he tried to get Julian to take the bait: "How blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand in the path of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers".  
Peter quoted the Psalm with such spontaneity that he realized only a few moments later he knew those verses by heart. The message highlighted in the Bible flashed through his mind, reminding him that what he was doing now was something absolutely wrong. He had to stay out of trouble, not venture out to study a potential killer.

However, Julian continued the quote: his face had lit up, his mouth had opened in a brief motion of amazement.  
"But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night." Julian seemed almost relieved.  
"Do you know how to tell if a person is suitable or not to work in a casino?" he asked suddenly, leaning a little forward towards Peter.  
Peter denied with a nod. "Please enlighten me"  
Julian whispered “ _Despise each of them. One after the other. He who is not enticed to play is sure not to commit their sin._ " then he drew back, smiling "Do you feel enlightened, Peter?"  
Peter thought about it. "It's a stimulating conversation, Mr. Janova" and he even hinted at a rather faint smile.  
"Why did you whisper it to me?" Peter went on.  
"Well- uh, I certainly cannot risk someone discovering our secrets." Julian declared "Such information, if heard by unworthy ears, could be very harmful to the entire casino." 

Of course it was.

Julian smoothed his vest with a hint of vanity. Peter observed that gesture and nodded thoughtfully at the young man's words.  
At that point, he - the man without identity, the alien landed on this world - asked candidly:

"Who are you, Julian Janova?"


	7. The nobleness of gambling (part 2)

"Who are you, Julian Janova?"

Julian smiled and fell silent. His green eyes scrutinised Peter's angular, tired face; his gaze was deep, almost uncomfortable.  
"It seems that I have whetted your hunger" he commented, without hiding a certain pride "It is truly right and just."  
That strange sentence again.

"I'm a curious person, Mr. Janova" Peter shrugged calmly.  
Julian smiled: “And I am, to my surprise, a human being."  
Peter raised an eyebrow, only for a moment, while Julian kept explaining: "As such, I have the right to err. And the duty to find a solution to these errors."  
Then Julian observed the grey-haired man, always elegant and steady. Probably he caught the interest in Peter's sober gaze.  
"Well, something is telling me that you think I am... not just a human being. Am I wrong, like the human being I should be?"

"I'm more interested in what _you_ think my opinion about you is" Peter commented placidly. He was increasingly enjoying this conversation, moreover he felt some mental clarity for the first time in days. He was - yes, he was "hungry". How long would it be last?

"Ah!" Julian exclaimed, pointing to Peter's chest. It could have been an accusatory gesture, but Julian seemed amused and enthusiastic instead. "See? Your heart leaps at the thought that you may have found a new way." 

How could Julian read his heart so well? 

"For a long time you made peace with the idea of only having one choice, and you accepted that. But now... oh, now everything may change. Your gray matter" he raised his index finger towards Peter's face "is working now more than ever. You wonder what you are getting into. Yes, you know very well that everything happens for a reason. But which one? What path could you be on? What could it bring? ... How many unanswered questions!" he proclaimed, all excited. 

Peter was sure not to be a person who manifested his own feelings. He was aware that he could control and hide his own emotions, at least under normal conditions. Hiding emotions. He had been _trained_ for this, but he didn't remember how or when: could it be for his job as a journalist?  
Yet, Julian was able to understand him so well. It was not just luck, despite they were in a casino. 

As a good journalist and rational man, Peter continued to believe that Julian was absolutely insane, although his madness was exquisite, elegant, a real work of art. And if Peter had just fallen into the net of a ruthless killer, he would not care in the least. It would have been a good death. He even said it to Lix, in his mind, while Julian was making his pantomime:  
_'I know what I am doing and, this time, I am a few moves ahead of him. But if this ends badly, it will be absolutely worth it. Just for this shining crazy diamond. I want to enjoy him, Lix, because that's what makes me alive and I can't help it. And probably no one else would listen to him. You are dead and I have nothing to lose.'_

"But you are a patient man, Peter" Julian declared, before looking at his own hand "And I must not point at people. It's rude." so he brought the hand in question behind his back.  
"I apologize."  
Peter half smiled at Julian - at Lix, actually - and welcomed Julian's madness unreservedly, as if it were an indisputable truth. After all, they were two madmen dancing over the abyss. 

Peter bowed his head a little and spoke to Julian in a reserved tone.  
"Whether you are an angel or a demon... perhaps it makes little difference, Mr. Janova. Aren't we all created in the image and likeness of God?"  
Indeed, even if Julian were now to reveal to Peter that he was the incarnation of God, Peter would not have been surprised and would have accepted it, as if he believed it true. One has to really look through the eyes of others to accept and understand them, one has to take their madness by the hand.

Julian's gaze revealed admiration for that answer. For some reason, he felt entitled to tease Peter with an ambiguous statement.  
"You certainly wouldn't be surprised if, when asked how old I am, I replied with two different numbers."  
Peter pretended he wasn't actually surprised and shrugged without asking any questions. There was no denying that Julian was very convincing in his eccentric claims. Probably, somehow, those words were just a distorted version of reality, as were the killer's words in the letter.  
"Where did you get those three seconds and thirty cents from?" Peter asked instead. Those numbers sounded as the result of some kind of experiment, possibly conducted on his victims. 

Julian slightly frowned as he heard Peter persistently asking about that point.  
"Well... as I told you, I have dealt with many ignorant people. And I was able to calculate how long it took healthy thoughts to slip away from their empty minds."  
Peter listened carefully. "And with extreme precision, I think." he replied, but went no further in investigating.  
Julian smiled gently. He seemed to enjoy what he perhaps perceived as veiled compliments. Maybe, in his vanity, he just wanted to feel appreciated.  
Julian glanced at the gaming tables and asked "Do you think someone is wondering why we haven't entered yet?"  
"Who cares?" Peter replied.  
Julian hinted at a laugh, held between his lips. "This is a very good question. Come with me, Peter. I'll show you the truth of my words."

Julian slipped very naturally into the cardroom, heading for a specific table. Peter followed him like some kind of a tired, thin, silent ghost. He looked around, but he felt uncomfortable. There too many stimuli, too many faces, too many details, and certainly too many gaming cards and chips. The gamblers' faces were tense with concentration and greed.

Julian led Peter to a table where a young man had just sat in front of a dealer. He was tall and very thin, totally dressed in dark, he had thick black hair, probably dyed, and dark eyes painted with some black eyeliner. He looked in his twenties and seemed to Peter somewhere between a punk and Edward Scissorhands. He had a troubled and insecure expression.  
Julian must have seen him from afar, but he pretended to have happened there by accident. He walked over to the table, while Peter stayed a few paces farther, studying the scene methodically.

"Matthew!" Julian exclaimed theatrically.  
"Hey" Matthew replied, quite dull. He also glanced quickly at Peter and seemed almost frightened, like a puppy in the midst of a herd of predators. 

Julian whispered something to the dealer who was at the table and the dealer walked away, leaving his place to Julian himself. 

He turned to Matthew again.  
"My dear, you are still alive..." Julian pressed him, in a caring tone that Peter found contrived.  
Matthew looked puzzled at Julian due to that hint of concern "Does it make you happy?"  
"You shouldn't ask me, but yourself. Does it make you happy?" Julian replied, dealing two cards to Matthew and two to himself, one exposed and one hidden, from the dealing shoe.

Matthew seemed a bit disconcerted, as Julian had knowingly touched a nerve. It was clear that Julian just wanted to make that guy an unwitting puppet in his own show. 

"Heavens, how rude of me!" Julian exclaimed, turning to Peter, with a glare of irony.  
It was pretty amusing how the word "Heavens" was not only a common saying for Julian. He was undoubtedly enjoy himself. 

"I did not even ask you if you want to join the game, Peter."  
Peter replied in a succinct manner "No, thank you Mr. Janova. I don't know how to play". He was only there to observe indeed.  
Matthew found the right opportunity to give Peter a look that definitely was a silent plea. He seemed to be afraid of playing the game alone with Julian, probably he foresaw a defeat.  
Peter found he didn't have much sympathy for Matthew, not least because he was interested in seeing how Julian would treat Scissorhands. 

_'You are quite cruel now. You are letting yourself be influenced by Julian.'_ Lix commented, calm as ever. She appeared at the side of the table, more or less next to Matthew.  
_'Lix, he could get up and walk away. He is choosing to play with Julian.'_

Matthew intervened, for one last attempt to break through Peter's coldness.

"The first few times I didn't know how to play either" he tried to entice Peter with great insecurity, wanting to arouse some pity. Peter hated this attitude. "I mean... even now I don't know how to play so well, but you can still win. I mean... as long as the right cards come out. You get slowly into the mechanism."

"Mh" Peter grumbled, as if he was really pondering whether to join the game, while scrutinizing the young man with an austere look. 

Julian nodded indicating Matthew: "He loves blackjack. He is actually quite good, Peter"  
Matthew was very embarrassed and immediately tried to remedy: "Oh no, I was just lucky. Now I'll surely end up making a bad impression." 

"Don't you think you're a bit too young to... 'get into the mechanism' ?" Peter asked, without hesitation but with a rather impersonal tone. It was not meant to be a criticism, just a way to test him. 

Matthew answered quickly. "I... I can assure you that I am not... a gambling addict..." he shook his head in confirmation "I'm not an addict" he restated, clearly to convince himself. "Hit me" asked to Julian, who dealt another card to him. Matthew had already made his bet, putting some chips on the green table. 

"I didn't mention an addiction" Peter pointed out, even though his question had been deliberately provocative. "I just think that at your age you can make a more fruitful and respectable use of your money" he commented, detached but never rude.

Matthew looked at his three cards and mumbled "Fuck blackjack"

Julian grinned. However, his eyes suddenly flared with silent fury as Matthew decided not to aggravate his situation further, alone with Julian and under the watchful eyes of a stranger. He probably realized that he had exposed his weakness at the table. "That's enough" the young man almost snapped, talking nervously "I'll make up for another day. Fuck the cards."

Julian muttered something back. He would have squashed Matthew like a bug if only he could. He stared intently at Matthew with a gaze filled with funereal hatred "You're a spoiled child. Watch how you talk!"  
Matthew perhaps pretended not to hear and walked away almost trembling on his legs.  
"Selfish, self-centered, dirty damn naive!" Julian keep insulting Matthew as if he were there, but in a low voice, following him with a grim and determined look.

It was a strange scene to witness. 

Meanwhile, a woman in her thirties had just approached them. She was pretty in her elegant burgundy dress and a pair of fine black sandals with heels that gave her a few more inches of height.  
She came up behind Julian, stopping a few paces from him. She faintly cleared her throat, unsure if this was the right moment.  
"Uhm - Julian?"  
She also nodded to greet Peter. He reciprocated in the same way, but remained silent to observe how Julian would behave.  
Julian turned quickly as he recognized the woman's voice and everything was gone on his face, as if he had pressed a button and extinguished the fire of anger at his command. It was fascinating.  
"Rebecca!" he even smiled.  
"I was curious to see how you were dressed in your habitat" she tried to tease Julian in a soft voice.  
"Ah, Rebecca, gentle as a wildflower and patient as a calm sea. What a pleasure to see you again!" Julian resumed his theatrical attitude, but he apparently felt quite a sincere affection for this woman.  
Julian moved slightly his hands near his black vest, as a funny way to show off his elegant clothes.  
Rebecca laughed softly and gently "Julian, you are a fashion plate!"  
"My dear" Julian replied, a little smugly, but with an innocence that somehow coexisted with so much hatred "Do you want to play a game?"  
"You will first have to teach me how to play. Can I have a test game?" she said with delicate irony.  
Rebecca casually turned to Peter, who had disappeared into silence and would have gladly stayed there. After a second, she scanned his face. The effort to remember something immediately gave way to a bit surprised and incredulous face. She tried not to show it much, but it was obvious to Peter.

They both stared at each other. Now it was Julian who observed them curiously. 

"I hope you don't mind me asking. You are Peter Barnes, aren't you? The Professor, the journalist."

Those words rang in Peter like an echo in an empty place. 

After just a moment, he could not articulate a syllable, because he simply wasn't able to give an answer. The spell that gave him energy and excitement had been broken in the most brutal of ways. The door in his soul had been reopened and he could see that monster again.  
It was almost like a creepy lullaby in his mind.  
_Peter Barnes did not exist anymore.  
Peter Barnes was the monster.  
Peter Barnes was imprisoned far away_  
and now he - the non Peter Barnes - was another person, an empty body. 

He looked around, but his vision was kind of blurry.

"Sorry, probably.. that was a terrible question" a distant voice said.

Bright colors, lights and reflections everywhere, sounds, people faces, all was disproportionate and invaded his senses, flooded him.  
He felt dizzy but couldn't move. It was too much.

"Are you okay?" the same voice asked.

He no longer recognized the place where he was, the casino seemed only an illusion, a projection wanted by Peter Barnes, the forgotten monster. There was something unacceptable about him. He felt like every fiber of his brain was screaming, but no sound could come out.

"I am Peter Barnes" he said those words that were hovering in his mind, but they had no concrete meaning. By repeating any word many times, the illusion of language and reality is shattered and one finds himself alone in front of nothing.

"Yes, of course you are."

"I am Peter Barnes" he repeated those words they teach you as a child, initiating you into the great deception of language. 

"Maybe he's having a stroke...?" another voice said, not much worried about the possibility.

He could have torn the wallpaper on which someone had painted game tables, people, everything.

"Oh God, no... Professor, are you alright?" she sounded alarmed.

That word was like a kick that plunged him deeper into the abyss. He didn't want to hear it.

"Don't touch him!" the male voice urged.

"Cigarette" Peter murmured. Cigarette was _the_ word. It would have burnt everything.

"What?"

He needed to smoke. He needed to escape and a cigarette was the solution to that puzzle. It would have allowed him to get out of the nightmare.  
Because this wasn't real, it was just a nightmare, right?  
He observed the colors and they made no sense. They were only silly illusions between black and white, as words were illusions. Even black and white are the same thing. 

All sensory stimuli flooded him again, they were less and less coherent, more and more confused. 

He had to find a cigarette.  
"Is there a cigarette?" he asked those two faces looking at him.  
They were talking but he could not hear anything, there was to much noise. They were close and yet they seemed so distant.

He didn't know who they were. They were strange faces. He was afraid.

He had to escape or he would have ended up squashed in that wallpaper on which the world was painted.  
And he did run away, probably walking.

"Let him go"

That male voice. Julian. A name like any other, meaningless.

A cigarette. He looked around frantically for that object, but instead he kept being hurt by colors, noise, and the unfriendly faces of human beings.  
With every step he took, he felt like he was descending into pure chaos. The black hole was about to swallow him.

Peter found himself in front of a probably Chinese cashier, paying for a pack of cigarettes and a basic lighter. His hands were shaking as he took a bill from his wallet.  
_'It's $ 7.50'_ Lix reminded him.  
He simply left the bill to the cashier without asking for change.  
He couldn't speak. Words were just meaningless.


End file.
